


Special Victims

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 20:53:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14985371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: This is the fulfillment of a request for a fic about Barba as a "special victim." For anyone who read my short piece, "Barba's Squad Room Walk," that's actually (with a few minor changes) spliced into this one. The rest is what happened before and after that walk.I got this request months ago but was hesitant to write it because I've been doing my best to create happy stories for those (myself included) who were upset about Barba's departure. I've finally written it, though; I just want to be explicit about the fact that Barba is sexually assaulted in this. It's not overly graphic but it does happen, over the course of the first 1500 words. He also recounts the events to Benson later.The fic takes place over a period of less than 24 hours.





	Special Victims

Barba hesitated with his key in the lock and his phone in his other hand, all of his senses suddenly on high alert. He’d been in the middle of writing a text to Benson, distracted, and by the time he became aware of the footsteps coming up behind him, it was too late. He started to turn, but a large, leather-gloved hand clamped over his mouth and nose so that he couldn’t draw a breath, and a broad body—taller and wider than his own—pressed up behind him and shoved him against the door. His phone was snatched from his fingers.

For a moment, his mind was blank, and he froze. He heard low voices and realized that there were at least three men behind him, and then someone was reaching in front of him to fumble with his key in the lock. The man behind him was flattened against his body, and Barba—unable to breathe, barely able to think—felt the man’s erection pressed against his hip.

And then, suddenly, he heard nothing but the roar of blood in his ears, felt nothing but the erratic pounding of his heart trying to tear through his ribcage, and he realized that he was doing _nothing_. He put his palms against the door and tried to push himself backward, but the door opened and he was shoved forward. He stumbled and would’ve fallen if the man had released him.

Instead, Barba was yanked backward, arms flailing upward, and spun around, slammed against the wall beside the door. His mouth was uncovered so he could finally draw a breath, but he didn’t yell. He had no idea who or what he was dealing with, and he couldn’t risk pulling someone else into harm’s way.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the shadowy figures stepping into the apartment, and then the door was pushed closed, blocking out the light from the hallway, and Barba couldn’t see anything but the paleness of the wall directly in front of his face. A hand grabbed at his hair, shoving his cheek against the smooth coolness of the wall. His body was flattened against the surface from cheek to thighs, and he tried once more to push himself backward.

He knew, in the corner of his brain still capable of rational thought, that mere moments had passed since he’d felt the glove clamping over his mouth—seconds, not minutes or hours. Time seemed to have slowed to a crawl, though.

Hands grabbed his shoulders and spun him around, again, now slamming his back against the wall, and he realized that someone was yanking off his jacket. _Do something!_ he screamed at himself. He felt hands at his belt buckle, and that broke through the fog in his brain. He was too slow, again, though; even as Barba tried to throw a punch toward the shadowy face in front of him, the other man threw a punch of his own, catching Barba in the stomach and knocking all the air from his body.

As Barba doubled over, his mind now a white-hot glare of pain and panic, the man stepped out of the way and hands grabbed Barba’s wrists, yanking his arms behind his back and driving him forward. Barba, bent at the waist and struggling to draw a breath, was steered forward until he was rammed into the end of his sofa. The armrest hit his thighs, and a hand in his hair drove his head down into the cushions. He was able to turn his face at the last second, and managed to pull in a shaky, burning breath as his cheek was pressed into the seat of the couch, but then he felt his trousers being yanked down—felt the cool air on his skin—and wondered if suffocation wouldn’t have been a better option.

His wrists were pinned against his back, pushed up high enough for his shoulders to already be screaming in protest, and a hand was still at the back of his head, holding his cheek against the cushion. A foot kicked between his feet, spreading them on the floor, a knee pushed his knees apart, his shirt was shoved beneath his restrained hands. Barba tried to struggle, but he was completely immobilized, and the familiar shadows of his apartment mocked him.

He tried to speak, unsure of what words would leave his mouth, but his jaw was tight against the sofa cushion and all that came out was a garbled, wheezy noise. His lungs felt like they were on fire as he tried desperately to get enough oxygen into his body. He felt gloved hands against his bare skin, felt fingers digging into his inner thighs with enough pressure to leave bruises as his legs were forced apart.

He closed his eyes, because he didn’t want to see the illusion of safety represented by his dark living room. He couldn’t move, and he cursed himself—for being caught unaware, for allowing himself to be overpowered, for not calling out for help while he had the chance.

He heard Benson’s voice, whispering in his mind: _it’s not your fault, you just have to survive—_ and he shoved the thought away, willing his brain to shut down. It refused to deliver him into blissful ignorance, though, and he was aware of everything; the muffled laughs, the small and gritty sound of a lowering zipper, the click of a picture being taken, the slamming of a neighbor’s door, the blare of a car alarm, the pounding of his heart, the breathy grunt of the man positioning himself behind him.

 _No, no, no, no_ , he thought, but his silent protest did nothing. He found himself praying as he hadn’t prayed, really _prayed_ , in years. His hands, restrained against his back, were curled into fists so tight that his short nails were digging into his palms, leaving semi-circular indentations.

He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, to keep from crying out as the pain tore through him. His brain floundered, searching for something, anything to latch onto, and landed on Shakespeare. The words of Hamlet’s soliloquy echoed in his skull, and he clung to them, willing his mind to focus on lines that were more than four centuries old.

He didn’t know how many minutes had passed when he was suddenly pulled backward, and he slid limply to his knees on the wooden floor, but it felt like hours; he knew that was an illusion. He barely felt the pain in his knees. A hand yanked his hair, pulling his head around, and his body turned awkwardly. He put a hand on the floor to keep from falling over and suddenly realized that his hands were both free. His fingers were tingling as blood returned to them.

As his head was tugged forward, he tried to lift an arm and his shoulder screamed in protest. He pressed a palm, weakly, against the bare thigh in front of him and pushed. He heard laughter, and he tried to grab onto the anger that was slithering through him; it was elusive, dancing in and out of the pain and humiliation, and he couldn’t quite catch hold of it.

Fingers grabbed his face and chin, forcing his mouth to open, and one of the men shoved himself between Barba’s lips, filling his throat and gagging him. Barba pushed at the man’s hips while trying in vain to turn his head away.

And then, finally, the anger came crashing in, and Barba snatched at it with all of his consciousness and energy. In spite of the hands holding his jaw, he bit down with all the force he could muster. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

The man cried out and tried to withdraw, and Barba clamped down harder, determined to bite the man’s cock right _off_. Something—a fist, or a foot, or something else—slammed into the side of his head, just below his eye, knocking him over and slackening his jaw as bursts of whiteness exploded across his vision.

He landed on his shoulder on the floor, his pants still around his thighs, and spat the man’s blood onto the polished wood. Before he could brace himself, two of the men were kicking him—a kick to his stomach, to his back, a heel brought down on his hip, a kick to the arch of his foot, to the back of his head. He swiped out blindly, grabbing for a foot, a leg, a weapon, anything, and found nothing but air. He couldn’t see through the sheen of tears and glare of pain.

One of the men tried to kick him in his crotch, but Barba was already curled up, and the blow caught his upper thigh.

It took him a long time to come back to reality; for the ringing in his ears to subside, for the whiteness to fade from his eyes, for his lungs and heart and brain to function in tandem, for him to realize that he was alone in the apartment. He lay curled on his wooden floor, his body full of pain, at first convinced the quietness around him was a trick. He cautiously turned his chin, rolling his eyes upward. He could see a thin bar of light from the hallway; they’d left the door cracked an inch, a final parting indignity.

His phone was on the floor, halfway between him and the door, lying beside the bar of light. As he stared at it, the screen lit up with an incoming text, and he closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to think about the fact that the text was probably from Benson. He didn’t want to think about the fact that anyone might see his open door and stick their head in to see if he was alright. He didn’t want to know how much—or how _little_ —time had passed.

He didn’t want to think about anything. He didn’t want to _know_ anything. Most of all, he didn’t want to feel anything.

But he could; he could feel everything, and he knew everything, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He thought of all the times he’d told people that it _wasn’t their fault_ , and only now did he realize how stupid and insincere he must’ve sounded to them.

“Get the fuck up,” he muttered aloud, hoping the sound of his own voice would break through his self-pity and paralysis. He opened his eyes and pressed his palms against the floor, wincing at the ache in his shoulders as he started to push himself up. Then the pain in his shoulders became secondary to the pain…everywhere else.

It hurt to breathe deeply, but he didn’t think they’d broken any ribs or other bones. The back of his head was throbbing, a fiery pain was radiating through his lower back, and he could feel the swelling beneath one eye.

But there was only one pain that _really_ mattered. He pushed himself onto his sore knees and pulled his pants up with trembling fingers, struggling to tug up the zipper. He somehow managed to fasten his belt buckle. His whole body was shaking. He could still taste the man, and feel him in the back of his throat, and he wanted to gag. He fought the urge as he straightened his shirt and looked down at himself. His clothes looked pretty normal.

He knew he was bleeding inside them.

He wanted to shower but knew he’d never be able to scrub away the marks they’d left. All he’d do was wash away the evidence. His mind tried to shy away from that thought, and he refused to let it. No, he had to think rationally. He couldn’t let emotions drive him into the hot embrace of the bathtub.

He walked slowly toward his phone. Every step was a painful reminder, and he winced when he bent carefully to retrieve the cell from the floor. He touched the power button and squinted at the too-bright screen, reading the last text from Benson.

_Off in hour, want drinks?_

He felt tears burning his eyes and nose, and he hated them. He blinked them back and stared down at the lieutenant’s name. He knew he should call her, but he wouldn’t be able to speak. She would come to him, and quickly. All he had to do was send a text. One or two words. She would come to him.

But he couldn’t sit, huddled and waiting, in his apartment.

Actually, he should have her meet him at the hospital. He was going to have to go to the hospital, and his stomach clenched at the thought. He’d already started toward the bathroom before he forced his feet to stop. He didn’t want to go to the hospital, or talk to the police. He wanted to strip off his clothes and wad them up in the bottom of a garbage bag so he’d never have to think of them again. He wanted to step into a spray of water so hot that it burned the fingerprints from his skin. He wanted to call in sick to work and hide in his room until his bruises were invisible and never tell anyone what had happened.

“No,” he said. “No, you don’t, you fucking coward.”

The truth was, he didn’t know what he wanted. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, and he couldn’t make a decision. He wanted to hide in his apartment; he wanted to get the hell out of his apartment. For long moments, he stood, frozen in indecision.

Then, finally, barely aware that he’d made a choice, he crossed the rest of the distance to the door. His key was still in the lock. He patted his back pocket to make sure his wallet was there; it was. He slid his phone into his front pocket and stepped into the hallway. There was no one in sight. He pulled the door closed and locked it before pocketing the keys. He looked up and down the hall.

He wasn’t feeling any fear. He supposed that might come later, when he eventually had to return home. He wasn’t feeling much anger, either; he _hoped_ that would come later. Mostly, what he felt was an unwelcome species of embarrassment—of shame—as he walked out of his building, hoping none of his neighbors would spot him and ask if he was alright.

He didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he stepped outside and hailed a cab. He lowered himself carefully into the backseat, ignoring the driver watching him in the rearview mirror. Barba couldn’t sit upright, so he leaned against his door.

“You need a hospital?” the driver asked.

“No,” Barba answered. He opened his mouth to give the SVU’s address and suddenly realized that the man would know what had happened, what had been done to him, if he did. “Just go up here, I’ll give you directions,” he muttered.

He thought the driver might waffle, but he pulled into traffic and turned when Barba told him to turn, casting only occasional glances at his bruised and bloodied passenger.

“Here’s fine,” Barba said when they were a block away.

The cabbie stopped, and Barba handed him money without bothering to count it. “Mister, this is—”

But Barba was already struggling his way out of the car. As he pushed the door closed, the driver rolled down the front passenger window and leaned over, ducking his head to look out at Barba. “Mister, you sure you don’t need to go—”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Barba said, wondering if he’d ever told a bigger lie in his life. He turned and walked up the sidewalk, concentrating on his breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. He didn’t look up, afraid to see how far away he was from his destination; he wasn’t sure he would make it, and then suddenly he was there.

It was too soon to exhale, though.

As he made his way through the building, he thought of all the women and men who’d made the journey before him. He’d come to know many of them over the years. He’d seen reactions that covered every inch of the spectrum, and he found himself trying to analyze his own behavior. He found himself wondering which reaction, of the victims with whom he’d dealt, his most closely resembled.

He blinked in surprise when the elevator doors opened. When had he gotten into the elevator? The Manhattan Special Victims Unit headquarters, as familiar to him as his own office, was laid before him.

Barba stopped in the doorway, pulling in a deep and pained breath. His gaze cut to the lieutenant’s door, and he forced his feet to move, not daring to look at anyone. He’d gone only a few steps before he saw Rollins appear in his peripheral vision. “Barba?” she asked, and the concern in her voice was unhelpful. “Are you okay?”

“Rafael—” Carisi started, and both detectives were headed toward him.

Barba held up a shaky hand, casting them a sideways look that stopped them in their tracks with matching frowns on their faces. Barba swallowed, glancing around. The room had gone quiet, painfully quiet; everyone was staring at him, and his footsteps faltered. He swallowed again, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Ahead of him, Benson appeared in her office doorway. For a moment—just a moment—her expression lit at the sight of him, and she started to smile. Then she really _saw_ him, and her happy recognition evaporated. She started forward, and he shook his head with a surge of panic. She stopped. She didn’t want to, but she stopped, because she knew that he wanted to flee. She could see it in his face. He knew that she could read him—she’d been dealing with victims for twenty years.

 _Victims_ , he thought, his stomach churning as the word finally sank in. His gaze had slipped to the floor, and he swallowed again, pulling in another breath through his nose. She was waiting for him. He knew how difficult that must be for her, standing there, waiting, wondering, imagining, wanting desperately to come to him but knowing he didn’t want that.

He raised his eyes and met hers, and saw pain twisting her features. He saw her throat work as she swallowed, saw tears shining in her eyes. He lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders, hearing her voice in his head: _You have nothing to be ashamed of_. He took one step, and then another, keeping his eyes on Benson, ignoring the murmurs around him, ignoring everyone and everything but the lieutenant waiting for him.

Benson saw him gather his courage, saw him embrace his stubbornness, saw him start walking as though crossing the squad room would be the longest walk of his life. And she saw him finding his anger, saw him pulling it up, using it to push away his pain and humiliation. It took all of her willpower not to go to him; he needed to make this walk on his own, even though his tortured steps were like daggers to her heart.

His shirt was untucked, and she saw a speckle of blood near his shoulder. As he drew nearer, she could see that his lip was split and swollen, and there was a darkening bruise high on one cheek, swelling beneath his eye. His hair was stuck to his forehead.

His eyes were what really mattered, though. The pain, the shame, the anger—his every emotion was shining in his green eyes, and she felt her heart breaking for him. She wondered what good she was doing at her job if she couldn’t protect the people she loved, keep them from this pain.

“Rafa,” she said, and she saw his face start to crumple. He bit his lip but winced and quickly released it. He shook his head. She stepped aside, but as he passed into the office, she put a hand on his arm, unable to stop herself. He pulled away and started pacing as she closed the door, cutting them off from the concerned looks of her squad. “Talk to me, Rafael,” she said, putting a hand to her throat to keep herself from reaching for him.

He continued to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists, glancing at her, tears burning in his eyes, his jaw tight with growing anger and agitation.

He couldn’t talk, not yet, she could see that, and so she said the only thing she could think to offer him: “You’re safe. You made it here, you’re safe, now.”

He stopped and stared at her, his chest rising and falling, his mouth working. Finally, he said, “Liv,” his voice cracking on her name, and she crossed the distance between them, taking him into her arms. For a moment he just stood there, trembling, and then he pressed his forehead against her shoulder and clutched at her like a drowning man to a life preserver.

“You’re safe,” she repeated.

“I didn’t know what to do, where to go,” he heard himself admit, and he barely recognized his own voice.

“Always to me,” she answered. She was rubbing his back, but she felt his wince and stopped. “I’m right here,” she said, and he sucked in a wet and shuddery breath, barely choking back a sob.

He didn’t want to cry, he wanted to be angry. He drew back, and she let him go reluctantly. He knew he had to tell her what had happened. He had to find a way to tear the words from his throat. She would never look at him the same way again; he couldn’t imagine how she would ever see him without remembering what had happened. He had to tell her, anyway. He didn’t know if he could find his way through this without her.

“Just breathe,” she said quietly. She reached for his arm and he stepped away, no longer able to bear the thought of her hands touching him. “Do you need to go to the hospital?” she asked, but the question was just a formality, just her way of giving him the illusion of control. He had no control anymore.

“Yes,” he said, and just that one word was a painful admission. But there was more, so much more. “But I need to tell you first.”

“Rafael—”

“I need to tell you first,” he repeated.

“Do you want to sit?” she asked. He gave his head a quick shake, and that was an admission, too. “Okay,” she said. “Take your time. Can you tell me where you were?”

“My apartment,” he said, admiring how well she hid her wince. He barely saw it. “Next to the…the…There’s blood on the floor, next to the couch,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s enough, I…It’s mixed with saliva. I…I don’t…Oh, Jesus,” he said, pressing a shaky hand to his forehead. He turned away from her and started pacing again in spite of his body’s protests.

“His blood?” she asked after a moment.

“His. One of theirs,” he said without looking at her. “I bit and spit.” A hysterical laugh bubbled up within him at the choice of words, and he clenched his jaw against the sound.

“How many were there?” she asked.

“Three,” he choked out, but as soon as he heard the word, he doubted its validity. He frowned, shooting her a quick glance. “I think,” he added. “It was dark, and…” He shook his head. “Yeah, no, I’m pretty sure it was three,” he said.

“Did they…” She hesitated, and he had enough presence of mind to recognize how unusual that was for her. She didn’t shy away from asking these kinds of questions, even when they were painful, but this was different.

“One of them,” he said, pacing. “I think it was only…one of them.”

He could almost hear her scraping her courage together. “He raped you?” she asked.

He pressed his lips together, barely noticing the pain, and nodded.

“Did he use a condom?” she asked, and he could hear the apology in her voice.

He shook his head, but he knew that wasn’t good enough. He had to speak. He had to answer her questions, had to force the words out. “No,” he said. He didn’t want to think about the fact that a part of the guy was still inside of him, but it was important. From a legal standpoint, it was important. Barba tried to remember how to think like a prosecutor.

“And his blood…?”

“Not his,” he said, shaking his head. “One of the others. After he was finished, he—they—” He waved a hand in the air, dragging his gaze back to hers with effort. “Put me on my knees, but that didn’t last long. I almost bit it off, I swear to God I tried,” he said.

She offered him a small smile. “We’ll notify the hospitals,” she said. “Raf, it looks like the back of your head was bleeding. Your hair is—” She made a vague up and down gesture in the air with her hand. “We need to make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

He realized, as he heard the faint vibration of her phone in her hand, that she’d already been texting her detectives while he’d been pacing. Even as the thought occurred to him, Benson glanced toward the door and he looked over to see Rollins on the other side of the glass.

“I need your keys,” Benson said, holding out a hand.

He blinked, confused.

“Your key to your apartment so we can send CSU without having to get the building’s—”

“Right,” he said, shaking his head as he plunged his hand into his pocket. “Right, yeah, sorry.” He handed over the keys, nearly dropping them from his trembling fingertips.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and he watched as she slipped from her office and pulled the door closed. He saw her speaking quietly to Rollins, who—to her credit—managed to keep her gaze from sliding to Barba, and then Benson was back in the room and the door was once more firmly shut against the outside world. She walked over and sat on the corner of her desk.

 _I should’ve told you I’d meet you for drinks_ , he thought. _I should’ve gone straight to Forlini’s to wait. I should’ve told you I loved you before it was too late._

“Whatever you’re thinking right now, Rafael, I need you to hear me. This isn’t your fault.”

“I know that,” he said through unmoving lips.

“I know you know it, but you need to _believe_ it. And you will, I promise you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, looking at her with burning eyes. “I froze and then it was too late and I couldn’t move.”

“You know that it’s a normal response—”

“Not for me,” he interrupted. “Everything I did was too slow, too late. I should’ve been…prepared. I should’ve known what to do. I always thought I’d react better. I’ve looked at victims and thought _why didn’t you fight back?_ What kind of person does that make me?”

“You’re human, Raf,” she answered quietly. “None of us know how we’ll react to anything until it happens. You think on your feet all day long, I know. No one has quicker reflexes than you. But this is different. No one is really _prepared_ for something like this. You did fight back, Rafael. You’re fighting back right now. I swear to you, we’ll get them. I’m sorry but I need to ask you some questions.”

“Of course,” he said, dragging a shaky hand over his bruised face.

“Do you know who they are?”

“I couldn’t see their faces but I don’t think so.”

“Not a neighbor, or neighbor’s friends that you’ve seen around?”

He lowered his hand to stare at her. “How’d they get in the building. That’s what you’re thinking,” he said, cold realization settling into his stomach. “Shit. I don’t…They didn’t really say anything, just…” He swallowed. “They just laughed, and…” He shook his head.

“That’s okay. We’ll have DNA on at least two of them. Did they wear gloves?”

“Yes. Well, at least the one…” He hesitated, looking at his hands, trying to remember if he’d felt leather or bare skin against his restrained wrists. “Yeah, they all wore gloves, I think,” he said. He stared down at his palms. He could see the faint imprints of his own fingernails, still dented into his palms, tinged slightly purple. He flexed his fingers, staring at those marks that he hadn’t known he’d made. “They took pictures,” he heard himself say. “One, anyway. I heard the click of a phone’s camera.”

“Did they break in? Were they already inside?” she asked. She’d already gotten his keys, but it occurred to him that she’d had no idea if the door was even locked. She was just covering her bases. Why was he having so much difficulty thinking these things through? _Maybe I do have a concussion_ , he thought.

He shook his head. “They came up behind me while I was unlocking the door,” he said. “I was…distracted.” _Texting you_ , he thought but didn’t say. “I didn’t hear them until it was too late.”

“You were in your own building at your door, there’s no reason you should’ve been—”

“Except I should know better,” he interrupted.

“And I shouldn’t have walked into my own apartment and let William Lewis put a gun to my head,” she said.

His lips parted in surprise. “That’s not the same—That wasn’t your—” He broke off, though, because that was her point, of course.

She leaned forward, holding his gaze. “You’ll start to believe it, trust me. It just takes time. I know you feel like you’re all alone right now, Rafael, but you’re not. You’re not,” she repeated, with tears shimmering in her eyes. “I’m right here and I will always be right here.”

“They put a hand over my mouth and nose and pushed me up against the door,” he said. He closed his eyes so he could remember the details, but the images were too vivid, burned into his eyelids, and he promptly opened them. Would he ever be able to sleep again? “I…put my hands against the door,” he said, raising his hands in the air to demonstrate, “and tried to push backward against him but the door opened and he pushed me inside, turned me around, pushed me against the wall,” he said. “They closed the door. Didn’t turn on any lights. They pulled my—my—” He gestured toward his shoulders, frowning.

“Jacket?”

“Right. They pulled it off, turned me around again. The guy…started undoing my…my belt buckle,” he said. He stopped and pulled in a breath through his nose. He wanted to resume pacing but forced himself to stand still and focus on breathing.

“You didn’t recognize his face? Anything about him?”

“He was…shadows,” he muttered.

“Okay. Where were the other two?”

“Right beside me,” he said, pointing at the floor as though they were _still_ beside him. “I tried to hit the one in front of me. I tried to hit him but everything I did was too slow. He hit me in the stomach and when I…doubled up, the others grabbed my arms up behind my back and they bent me over the end of the couch. They held my arms back, pushed my head into the cushions. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t move at all.” He was unaware of his fists, clenching and unclenching, at his sides.

“Do you need to stop for a minute?” she asked.

“No,” he said. He looked at her face, feeling a rush of guilt. “Do you?” he asked.

“Me?” she asked, surprised.

“I know this must be hard for you.”

“I’ve been doing this a long time,” she said.

“I know. But this is different. I know, because…I had to put you on the stand to talk about Lewis. It’s different when you—care about someone.” He’d almost said _it’s different when you love someone_ , and he felt a flare of panic. He had to be more careful. He couldn’t use that word, not now, not like this.

“We want to protect the people we love, Rafael,” she said, quietly. “I can’t take back what happened to you but know that I’m right here. We’re partners.”

He managed a small smile. “I’m not a cop,” he muttered. Then, before she could say anything else—before she could say anything that would make him lose his tenuous grip on his emotions—he continued: “I couldn’t move, or maybe I froze again. I don’t know. Two of them were holding me, I guess. The other one…pulled my pants down. Uh. He, uh.”

“I understand,” she said. “And after?”

He swallowed, blinking several times to clear his eyes. “Pulled me backward and I fell on my knees. I didn’t realize they weren’t holding my hands anymore, at first. Then I tried to push him away—”

“The second guy?”

“I guess so, yeah. Yes. I tried to push him away but the others opened my mouth and he…”

“And you bit him.”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Someone—something hit me,” he said, pointing at his swollen eye. “To make me let go. And then they started kicking,” he said, rubbing absently at his hip. “And then…they were gone. Just gone. I don’t even know. I didn’t black out. I don’t think I blacked out. When I looked up, they were gone, and the door was cracked open. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. I was going to call you but I didn’t know what to say. I knew you’d come but I couldn’t stay there. I had to get out. So I came here.”

“I’ll give you a ride to the hospital,” she said. “When you’re ready. Do you want me to walk you through what’ll happen?”

He shook his head. “I know it’ll be…unpleasant. Let’s just get it over with.”

“Would you…rather…Carisi or someone—”

“No,” he said. _I need you_ , he thought. He couldn’t remember ever needing anyone so much in his life, but he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t manage the words.

He didn’t have to say them, because she could see them in his eyes. She rose from the edge of her desk. She wanted to reach for him, but resisted. “When you’re ready,” she repeated.

“I’ll never be ready,” he muttered. “Let’s just do it.”

“We’re going to walk out of here together,” she said, and they did. He barely noticed the looks cast in his direction, and he blinked in surprise when he found himself standing beside her cruiser. She was looking at him, and he tried to bring himself back to reality. He wasn’t even sure what he’d been thinking. Mostly it was the sound of the zipper. He thought that was the sound that would haunt him for the rest of his life. “I don’t want you to go to sleep,” she said. Of course, she was still worried about a concussion. He was worried that he’d lost his grip on his mind.

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he murmured, looking over the car toward a group of pedestrians passing by on the sidewalk.

“Do you want to lie down in the backseat?” she asked.

He shook his head, forcing his gaze back to hers. “I’ll sit,” he said. It would hurt, but he would do it. “But I don’t know if I…bled through—” His trousers were dark enough that it wouldn’t be noticeable.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said, pulling open the front passenger door. “But let me know if you need me to pull over or anything.”

He nodded, carefully folding his battered body into the front seat. He hissed in a breath and then, gathering all his willpower, let it out as he forced his body to relax into the pain. Benson closed the door and rounded the car, climbing in behind the steering wheel.

She drove in silence, knowing he didn’t want to talk anymore. He put his head back; he could feel the knot and remembered her saying his hair was sticking up. He turned his face toward the window a bit, to make it more comfortable, and closed his eyes. He listened to the hum of the road beneath the tires, and the muffled sounds of the city that were so familiar he rarely heard them anymore.

He didn’t open his eyes until she pulled up to the hospital. She dropped him off at the door and he stood outside the entrance, swaying slightly beneath the fluorescent lights, while she parked the car. She had no intention of leaving before he did. She didn’t say so out loud, but he knew it, and he was filled with gratitude.

“I keep trying to be angry,” he muttered as they walked inside. “I can’t keep hold of it. It comes and goes.”

“Trust me, it’ll be back,” she said. Her arm brushed against his, but he didn’t pull away. “Anger’s a good defense mechanism, Rafa, but unfortunately you have to feel all the other shit, too.”

He shot her a quick smile. It was genuine, but it felt strange on his face.

She stayed with him through his entire examination. He didn’t want to ask it of her, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask her to leave, either. So she stayed. He kept his eyes closed and his elbow clamped over his face. He knew that Benson probably had her eyes averted for the invasive procedures and photographs, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He couldn’t muster any more embarrassment; he’d gone somewhat numb, although he again found himself wishing he’d told her how he felt about her before it was too late. They’d crossed a line, now, that could never be uncrossed.

He’d been given something for pain after his blood had been drawn, and it had eased some of his aches and pains. After the examination, he found he could sit on the table. It was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. He was wearing a thin gown, trying not to shiver, when he suddenly realized how late it was. They’d been in the hospital for hours, and he felt a rush of guilt.

“Liv, you should go—Where’s Noah?” he asked.

“Lucy’s watching him and Jesse at Rollins’s apartment. He’s staying the night there.”

“Liv, I—”

“Carisi brought you some clothes, and personal things in case you don’t want to go home tonight,” she said, holding up the bag.

“Carisi was here?”

“They’re finished with your apartment. Do you want me to stay there with you, or do you want to stay at my place?”

He had no idea how to answer that.

“They’re canvassing your building, talking to neighbors,” she said, her expression apologetic. “So it might be best if you come home with me.”

He nodded mutely.

“Do you need help getting dressed?”

He shook his head. After a moment, he slid to his feet on the floor. He took the bag from her hand and pulled out the clothes that Carisi had selected, barely seeing them. He pulled on underwear, then slipped off the hospital gown. He slowly and methodically got himself dressed. She kept her eyes on her phone until he was clothed, and then she got to her feet.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded, and she put her hand on his arm. She pulled it back quickly, though, and he thought dully that it was good. It was good that she didn’t want to touch him, because he was too tired to pull away.

He blinked and then he was sitting in her car. He blinked again and found himself inside her apartment as she walked around turning on lamps. He knew she was doing that for him, so he wouldn’t have to wonder what might be lurking in the shadows, but the light burned his eyes.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

He shook his head, hesitated, and then nodded. He wasn’t really sure, but he knew he hadn’t eaten since lunch time. He couldn’t hope to figure out how many hours ago that was. All his senses and thoughts felt dulled. He wasn’t sure if that was from the drugs, or shock, or both, and he didn’t care.

He sank into the softness of her sofa while she went to the kitchen, and she was by his side in just a few minutes with a grilled cheese sandwich, cut diagonally on the small plate. She set a glass of juice on the coffee table, and he turned his head to look at her, suddenly thinking of his own mother. What the hell was he going to tell her? He’d have to tell her something, everyone was going to know. He had to tell her before she heard his name on the news.

He winced at the thought.

Benson seemed to be able to read his mind. He supposed that shouldn’t surprise him. “If you want me to, I’ll call your mother,” she said, and he hoped she didn’t think that he saw her that way; like his mother. “And anyone else you want,” she added. “We’ll figure out the rest as it comes, Rafael. Don’t worry about the press or a trial or any of that stuff, now. We’ll take this one step at a time.”

He nodded, turning his attention to his sandwich. He realized that she had one, too. He hadn’t noticed before. They ate in silence. He barely tasted it, but he was grateful for the warmth and weight in his stomach. He wanted the extra heat of a scotch, but he knew there was no point in asking. He drank the juice, instead.

What he really wanted was a hot shower, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay on his feet.

“If you want, I’ll draw you a bath,” she said quietly, and he nodded in gratitude, wondering if he was muttering his thoughts aloud without realizing.

Then he was standing in the bathroom, watching the steam rise from the water in the tub. He was alone, and he carefully stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the water. It was hot enough to sting his skin, and he winced. She’d known he would want it as hot as possible, and he sank slowly into the heat, hissing at the pain. He leaned back against the cool porcelain, letting his skin acclimate. He looked down at his body, shimmering beneath the water.

He could see the darkening bruises on the insides of his thighs, six of them—three fingers on each side, prying his legs apart. He swallowed. He had bruises on his knees, his stomach, his hip. He knew his back was discolored without being able to see it. They would be worse in the days to come, spreading and changing colors. Nothing was broken, though. He had a black eye, but the swelling seemed to have stopped. The gash on the back of his head hadn’t required stitches.

The physical injuries would all heal quickly enough. Most of them would be hidden beneath his clothes, anyway.

There was a soft knock on the door. “Raf? Can I…” She hesitated. “Can I help you?”

He pulled a washcloth over his lap, holding it in place beneath the water, though the action was just a formality. It didn’t matter. “You can come in,” he answered quietly.

She stepped inside, her eyes landing on his face. “I thought you might need help with your hair,” she said. They’d cleaned the scalp wound in the hospital, of course, but they both knew that wasn’t the point.

He nodded, watching as she crossed over and lowered herself onto the edge of the tub. He sat forward, closing his eyes as she used a plastic cup to pour water over his hair. Her fingers were gentle against his scalp as she worked shampoo into his damp hair, and she carefully avoided the knot on the back of his head.

He could feel himself almost drifting off as her hands caressed his scalp. She put the edge of her palm against his forehead while she rinsed his hair, and he opened his eyes to look up at her. He could see the emotion in her dark gaze, and he wanted to comfort her. He wanted to tell her that he was alright, but he couldn’t.

She brushed his wet hair back from his forehead and temples with her fingers. She bent her head and kissed his hair, and his forehead, drawing a deep breath through her nose as she pressed her lips to his skin. Her palms cupped his face as he turned toward her. He lifted his arms out of the water and wrapped them around her waist, burying his face against her stomach. He was sorry for getting her clothes wet but unable to resist the comfort of her embrace.

He felt a sob, lodged in his throat, and tried to swallow it down.

She held his head against her shirt. “Don’t fight it,” she murmured. “Let it out, Rafa, you’re safe here.”

The sob bubbled out of him, and his arms tightened around her. And then he was crying, holding onto her for dear life. She was talking, murmuring words of love and encouragement, but the words were unimportant; he heard only the sound of her voice, felt only the strength in her body, smelled only the comforting, mingled scents of shampoo and perfume.

When he started to come back to himself, he mumbled against her shirt: “I’m sorry, Liv.”

“Shh,” she said, running her fingers through his wet hair. “Don’t you remember what Ali MacGraw said?”

He sniffed, not wanting to wipe his snot on her shirt. “That line was written by Erich Segal, not Ali MacGraw,” he said, quietly.

“It’s also bullshit,” she said, and he snorted laughter, pulling back to look at her. He knew he must look terrible, but she smoothed her hands over his cheeks and forehead, studying his face. “But it’s true for us. I’ll get the pajamas that Carisi packed while you finish washing. I’ll be right back.”

He nodded, but he didn’t immediately release her. He looked at her wet shirt. He wanted to apologize again, but he stopped himself. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he finally murmured, instead.

“Think about how you’d feel if our situations were reversed,” she said softly, tucking a wet curl behind his ear.

His mind shied instantly from the thought; he didn’t want to begin to contemplate anything happening to her. If anyone touched her, he would kill them. He’d nearly killed William Lewis. So many times, he’d had to fight the urge to wrap his hands around the man’s throat—

He shook his head, looking up at her face.

“I know,” she said, once more bending to press her lips against his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

He lowered his arms into the water, watching as she turned and straightened.

 _I love you_ , he thought.

And she loved him. He knew that that was her point.

Half an hour later, he was lying in her bed, curled on his side, looking up at her. She was sitting beside him, one foot on the floor, turned at the waist to face him. “Are you more comfortable with me sleeping here, or on the couch?” she asked.

“Please stay,” he whispered, and she nodded. She was already dressed in dry pajamas. She turned and drew both legs onto the bed, and he shifted backward to make room. She stretched out on her back, reaching an arm toward him, and he curled into her warmth, letting out a breath as he settled against her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “You’re safe, and if you need a reminder, just say my name.”

 _I love you_ , he thought. “Thank you.”

Already, the drugs were pulling him into unconsciousness, and he was grateful for the lure of sleep.

He woke in the darkness with the roar of blood in his ears and his heart slamming in his chest. He felt arms around him, and he started to push away, panicking.

“Rafa.”

He stopped, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes. The pain meds had worn off, and his body was full of aches. “Liv?”

“I’m here.”

He sighed shakily, settling against the pillow, swallowing several times.

“Do you want a light on?”

“No, it’s okay,” he said. “I just—It’s okay. I’m okay.”

She rolled toward him, putting her arm over him. “You’re okay,” she agreed, and he realized it was the first time he’d said the words to her. He still wasn’t sure he believed them, or that he’d ever be alright again, but he’d said them. “Do you want me to get you more medicine?”

“No,” he said. “I’m okay,” he repeated, forcing his tensed muscles to relax. “What time is it?”

“Almost four,” she said.

He nodded against the pillow, looking at her in the darkness.

“They’re in custody, Raf,” she said, and he felt the air leave his body. She put her hand against his jaw. “All three of them. We’re waiting for DNA to come back, and we’ll see if you can identify any of them in the morning, but Rollins and Carisi are sure it’s them. One of them turned up at County for the bite.”

The rush of relief shocked him. He hadn’t consciously been aware of the anxiety of knowing they were out there, somewhere, wandering the world. To know they were sitting in a holding cell lifted a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

“They found the picture on one of the phones, too. It’s just one, and there’s no way to…identify you or your apartment for sure from it. Even so, you don’t have to worry about it getting out. It hasn’t been sent to anyone or uploaded anywhere.”

“It was just a matter of time,” he muttered.

“Yes, well…thanks to you, we found them sooner rather than later.”

“Thanks to you and Carisi and Rollins,” he countered softly. “Everyone at SVU. The best in the city, in the country.”

“We caught them because of you, Raf,” she said, running her thumb along his stubbled jaw. “I only wish you’d been able to bite it all the way off,” she added, and she felt his smile against her hand. “Like…Lorena Bite-it,” she said.

It was a bad joke, but he laughed—a real laugh; and she joined him, both of them laughing until they couldn’t breathe. “Lorena Bite-it,” he repeated, shaking with laughter. “Jesus, Liv.”

She leaned toward him and pressed her forehead against his shoulder, and he put his arm around her.

“I love you,” he said. He heard her quick intake of breath, and he was afraid she was going to pull away. She loved him; he knew that. She’d used the word, but he’d already known it. He knew his fears were irrational. She would no more withdraw from him than he would if their roles were reversed. Irrational or not, he was still afraid. He needed her, and not just because of the assault. He’d needed her for years. He’d loved her for years.

When she shifted, he loosened his arms. She didn’t pull away though—she drew back only far enough to see his face. “I know,” she said, and he let out a shaky breath. “I love you, too. I’ll always be right here.”

He swallowed and nodded. His eyes were burning. A part of him wanted to kiss her, but it was not the right time; not while he could still feel _them_ on his skin, not while his lip was still swollen and his body still bruised.

She bent her head forward and pressed her lips against his chin, her hand still cupped against his jaw, and he closed his eyes, tightening his arms around her.

“Try to go back to sleep,” she murmured, her lips close to his ear. “We’ll deal with this one step at a time.”

“I love you,” he repeated, and he could feel himself relaxing in her arms. He still didn’t know if he was alright, but he knew he could survive anything with her by his side.

 

 

 

He didn’t think he’d be able to identify them. He’d convinced himself that their faces had been nothing but shifting shadows. But his gaze slid across the rows of men and he knew. He was able to pick every one of them out, in three different lineups.

He didn’t know from their faces which one was sporting a nasty bite mark, but he knew which one had pushed him over the arm of the couch. He was the third to be identified, and Barba’s stomach ran cold at the sight of him. He was the twenty-three-year-old son of one of Barba’s neighbors; the other two were his friends. Barba couldn’t remember ever having seen him in the building, but he must’ve been around.

He wouldn’t be around anymore, though. Not for a long time. And his mother, who lived in Barba’s building? He wasn’t sure how he would face her, but he would cross that bridge when it arose.

Barba turned when the man was escorted out of the room.

“Raf,” Benson said, and he realized that her hand was on his arm. He looked at her, swallowing the lump in his throat, and she lowered her hand, offering him a small nod. He started toward the young man, and Benson motioned for the cops to wait. They held the man’s arms; his hands had been cuffed behind his back before he was escorted from the room.

He looked at Barba and lifted his chin, a smirk twisting his lips.

Barba walked toward him with his hands in fists at his sides.

“You gonna hit me?” the man asked. “Think that’ll change anything?” He bent his head forward and winked. “We all know you’ll never really be rid of me.”

“I’m not going to hit you,” Barba said, relieved to hear that his voice was steady. He forced his fingers to relax. “I’m going to put you in prison like I’ve done to thousands of insignificant pieces of shit before you. Once you’re locked away, we forget all about you. Each and every one of you, rotting away, forgotten while we move on with our lives.”

The man tried to lunge forward, but the cops held him back. Barba’s heart jumped in his chest, but he didn’t flinch. It took all of his willpower, but he didn’t flinch. Benson was by his side, half a step back, and Barba knew that there was no safer place in the world than surrounded by her and her squad.

But it was more than that. The man before him wasn’t a boogeyman. He was a young man who was scared shitless at the prospect of going to prison; he was doing his damnedest to hide the fact, to deny it even to himself, but Barba had looked into too many eyes—both of victims and of perps—not to recognize the emotion.

He had no pity for the young man. Barba would lose no sleep wondering how he and his friends were getting along in prison. But he also felt no fear. Disgust, yes. And God help him, there was still a twinge of shame. Barba wasn’t going to allow that to take root, though. And he knew that if he started to give in to the feeling, Benson would pull him out of it.

Barba smiled at the other man. He was going to say something else, and found he didn’t want to. The guy didn’t deserve any parting words, so Barba turned his back on him and walked away with Benson at his side. The man shouted after him, but Barba ignored him. He felt Benson’s hand, light against his back, and he offered her a small smile. His hands were shaking, but that was from the adrenaline. It would pass.

“Liv, Lucy’s here with the kids,” Rollins said, gesturing as she smiled toward her daughter. Rollins and Carisi had worked all night and morning without sleep, and Barba would never be able to thank them. He made a mental note to get them something, though.

“Hi, Mom,” Noah said, hurrying toward them with a grin on his face. He let his mother hug him, and then turned toward Barba with his arms out. “Hi, Uncle Rafa!” he said, moving forward.

Barba tried to brace himself. He saw Benson step forward to intervene and gave her a quick shake of his head to let her know it was alright. He pulled Noah into a quick embrace, ignoring the pain in his stomach and lower back as the boy wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Hey, buddy,” Barba said, brushing the boy’s curls from his forehead and smiling down at him. “How you doing?”

“Oh, good,” Noah said, smiling as he pulled back. “What happened to your eye?”

“We…can talk about that later,” Barba said.

“When are you coming over for dinner?”

Before Barba could answer, Benson said, “Actually, Uncle Rafa might be staying with us for a while.”

Barba cast her a quick look before watching Noah’s face, gauging the boy’s reaction.

Noah’s face lit up. “Really?” he asked, his excitement soothing some of the hurt deep inside of Barba.

“Really,” he answered.

“In fact, we’re heading home right now,” Benson said. She turned toward Carisi. “And you go home,” she told him. Barba also turned and met the detective’s blue eyes.

After a moment, Barba put out a tentative hand and patted Carisi on the shoulder. “Thanks, Sonny,” he said.

Carisi looked exhausted, but he smiled. “Just doing my job,” he said, but they both knew that wasn’t entirely true. He and Rollins had gone above and beyond, because they were family; Barba was part of that family.

Looking over at Rollins, who was holding Jesse, Barba said, “Best in the world at what you do. You’re all the reason the rest of us can sleep at night.”

“Don’t forget your part,” Rollins said.

“Yeah, our job’s only part of it,” Carisi agreed. “All the people we’ve put in jail are there because of you.” He clapped Barba on the shoulder, but lightly.

“You help people sleep at night, too, Counsellor,” Rollins said. She shot Barba a pointed look. “And don’t forget it.”

Barba nodded. “Thanks.”

“Alright, come on,” Benson said, steering Noah toward the exit. Barba fell into step beside her and, after a moment, she put her elbow through his. “You okay?”

He drew a deep breath and let it out. He gave his head a little shake. “Not really, but…I will be.”

 


End file.
